


every picture it paints

by littlelionphocion



Category: 18th Century CE RPF, Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alternate History, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon Era, Epistolary, Multi, Pseudo-academia, Unreliable Narrator
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-05
Updated: 2016-11-05
Packaged: 2018-07-12 09:07:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,156
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7095826
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/littlelionphocion/pseuds/littlelionphocion
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              
<p></p><blockquote>
  <p>Alexander Hamilton gave what would prove to be a visionary speech, yet at the time the Convention gave his ideas little notice. Somehow, Hamilton managed to correctly intuit that only a president serving a life-long term could bring the young nation the stability it needed. The other attendees passed over Hamilton’s system in favor of that proposed by James Madison and others, unable to predict the disastrous results of frequently-changing national leadership which would become apparent in the 1790s.</p>
  <p><em>—</em>Ron Chernow, <em>Alexander Hamilton</em></p>
</blockquote><p>France decides not to risk aiding the Continental Army in the months leading up to Yorktown, with far-reaching results.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

 

> In the early 1850s, visitors to the White House were greeted by an elderly widow: a partially-blind, partially deaf woman whose gentleness and stoicism had long-since earned her the title of “Mother of our Country.” Elizabeth Hamilton, matriarch of the Hamilton dynasty and de-facto queen of these United States, was a self-possessed woman of quiet strength and poise even well into her nineties. Several decades earlier, her husband had been assassinated by his sometimes-friend, sometimes-political-enemy Aaron Burr, whose daughter Theodosia had married into the Hamilton clan only three years before. For decades after her husband’s death, Elizabeth Hamilton continued to receive foreign dignitaries, guide her son through the tumultuous early years of his presidency, and lead efforts to shelter orphans and educate children. Yet close friends would later remember her as a woman who preferred private life to public, who was at her happiest when working directly with the children whose lives she sought to improve, and who spoke of wanting nothing more than to see “her Hamilton” again.
> 
> _—_ Ron Chernow, _Alexander Hamilton_

* * *

 

>  Over two hundred years later, it can be difficult to comprehend how improbable the American victory in the War for Independence truly was. The Continental Army faced many obstacles in the ten-year war for the nation’s freedom, and though some of these hardships have been analyzed thoroughly in the historical record and permeated through to popular understanding—the winter at Valley Force being one prime example—others of similar or greater significance are often overlooked for lack of surface drama. One such event was the decision of France in 1780 to remain neutral in the conflict, despite high American hopes for intervention, which provided a significant blow to American morale at a critical point and likely prolonged the decade-long struggle.
> 
> _—_ Rafael Davis, _The American Revolution, Revisited_

 

> That French aid and troops would have considerably strengthened the American cause in the spring of 1781 is undeniable. Even so, to say their refusal was a considerable blow to morale—when no other outcome could have reasonably been expected, given France’s officially neutral stance from the beginning of the war—is to assign drama to the event in retrospect. Lafayette had, after all, come to the United States against his king’s wishes in the first place, so that his brief return home four years later produced no results was only to be predicted.
> 
> _—_ Julia Woodham, “Pre-Twentieth-Century Franco-American Relations,” _The Journal of American History._

 

> The assumption by Rafael Davis and others that French aid would necessarily have hastened the end of the war overlooks several critical aspects of contemporary international relations. In a world where each European power vied for land and resources, it is equally possible that had the marquis de Lafayette’s mission proved successful, Britain would have taken the alliance as a sign of French aggression—and an incentive to pour more of their own military might into maintaining their colonies in North America. Moreover, even if turning the war into a territorial tug-of-war between two European empires had not prolonged the fighting, reliance on French aid would have deepened the new country’s debt and undermined its reputation as a sovereign and powerful nation in its own right.  
> 
> _—_ Paul Minnett, _Early Years of the American Republic_

* * *

 Silence reigned in the General’s tent. Only the soft patter of rain onto the canvas and a distant roll of thunder could be heard as the two men inside looked at each other: one standing and shivering slightly in his damp clothes, the other seated behind a desk strewn with now-forgotten papers.

When Washington spoke, it was with a hoarse voice. “Is there no hope at all that the king might change his mind?” he asked.

Lafayette shook his head. Having ridden hard from the harbor to reach the camp as quickly as possible, he was sodden with rain, and some of his curls had fallen out of their customary ponytail. Mud spattered his usually impeccable uniform. “I did everything I could to convince him,” he answered unhappily, then added: “But perhaps if we should win a few more battles, he may be convinced to rethink his decision.”

Despite the grim situation, a small smile traced Washington’s features at the younger man’s optimism. “Perhaps,” he allowed.

Lafayette, who was no fool, and who despite his attempt to offer some small piece of hope knew as well as Washington the likelihood of winning even _a few more battles_ without outside aid, bowed his head. “I am sorry, _mon général._ I wish I had returned to you with better news.”

At this, Washington stood and strode across the tent to clasp Lafayette on the shoulder. “I have no doubt that you did everything you could,” he said, hand tightening in reassurance through the damp fabric. “And I am only glad that you have returned to us. Your presence has been missed, son.”

Lafayette ducked his head further, this time to hide a smile, and he stepped forward to embrace the older man. After only a moment’s hesitation, Washington returned the gesture.

When Lafayette stepped back, his face had grown serious. “I am also glad to have returned,” he told Washington earnestly. “But there’s someone else we need, if we are to survive this.”

Washington settled down onto his chair. “I know.”

* * *

* * *

Alexander tapped his quill against the side of his lap desk. In front of him lay a half-written letter to Eliza, one he was having trouble finishing for fear that the despair that had begun settle over him would leak into his words. What could he say to her? _The cannonfire is constant, my dear Betsey, and I suspect we will have to withdraw within the next few days or be slaughtered. Have you yet to give birth to our child? You still have some time left by my estimation, but one never knows. I ask only out of curiosity, of course, for even if you have, the fate of our nation hangs by an ever-thinning thread, and it is unlikely that I will take a leave in the foreseeable future. I imagine death so much it feels more like a memory, and only memories of you and the life you bear inspire me to keep those imaginings from becoming reality._

So lost in thought was he that he failed to notice the figure approaching him until it spoke his name, at which point he hurriedly set the desk on the ground beside him, scrambled to his feet while brushing his clothes free of grass and dirt, and snapped to attention. “Your Excellency.”

“Walk with me,” was all Washington said. When Alexander nodded, he turned on his heel and began making his way through the camp. Alexander, who was forced to walk quickly to keep up with the General’s long strides, followed, stretching as he walked to rid his joints of the ache that had managed to settle into them while he sat.

 A haze hung in the air, combining the acrid smoke of cannonfire with the smoldering campfires dotted irregularly around the tents. Though it was only midday, it was late enough in the year that the air had begun to cool, and Alexander was briefly tempted to pause in front of one of the fires as he walked past and was momentarily warmed by a waft of heat. But he didn’t, instead following Washington past the rearmost tents and along a path through a wooded area that led up a small rise. They passed a sentry, who saluted, and walked in silence a few minutes more until they reached the top of the hill.

Finally, Washington came to a halt. He looked out over the terrain they’d just traversed, and Alexander followed his gaze, slightly out of breath from the exertion. He could see immediately why Washington had chosen the spot, for it allowed him a view of the entire encampment, with the two trenches that had been dug over the course of the past month. Men near the front lines exchanged artillery fire with the British earthworks.

It also offered the best view he’d had so far of the British fleet since they’d sailed into the Yorktown port two days before. From this far out, he couldn’t see well enough to get an exact count of the ships. At least a dozen, he estimated; probably closer to a score.

Enough to be carrying thousands of troops, at any rate. Not to mention arms and ammunition and supplies _—_ the cannonfire bombarding their encampment had doubled overnight after the warships had arrived, and a flurry of activity had arisen at some of the previously abandoned defenses. Earlier that afternoon, the British had retaken redoubt 9. Redoubt 10 was likely next, and after that...

He tore his eyes away from the scene and turned to Washington. “Your Excellency?” He pulled his coat more tightly around himself as he spoke—while his uniform was not yet to the point of being threadbare, the worn material offered little protection against the frigid breeze sweeping the peak.

Washington turned to look at him, and Alexander straightened instinctively under the weight of his gaze. “Hamilton,” he said, and then, after a moment’s hesitation. “I don’t suppose you see anything here that I don’t?” He gestured out over the scene before them.

Alexander’s heart plummeted at the note of resignation in his General’s voice. Because even though he’d known this was coming, part of him had still hoped. Had half-expected Washington to say _I have a plan,_ to say, _I have a plan, my boy, and I need_ you _to pull it off._

“No, sir,” he said quietly, and shivered against the cold.

Washington nodded, not looking surprised. “Then there is no way to win, you think?” Alexander closed his eyes. He wished he could feel honored that Washington had sought him out, of all the officers under his command, but at the moment he only felt vaguely ill. It made sense, now, why Washington had chosen to have this conversation out of earshot of anyone else.

Opening his eyes again, he swallowed hard. “We don’t have to win, sir,” he said. “We only have to fight.” He folded his arms tightly across his chest, looking out across the battlefield to the town beyond, the British ships floating ominously in the distance. God, but he _wanted_ to try to regain the advantage, to lead another charge with his men at his back and adrenaline pumping through his veins, to come up with the brilliant strategy that would turn their now-massive disadvantage in numbers into a miraculous victory. Leading the attack on the British redoubt and accepting the commanding officer’s surrender _—_ that had been one of the sweetest moments of his life, and he longed for another taste of the thrill of command.

But Washington had asked him what he thought, not what he dreamed. He looked up at the older man. “And we can’t fight if we’re dead,” he finished quietly. _Living is harder,_ he did not need to say.

Washington gave him a curt nod, and Alexander thought he detected a wistfulness in the way the general too looked out over the tableau before them. Perhaps he was just projecting. After all, they’d been so _close_ …

“Find Lafayette,” ordered Washington. “Tell him we’re organizing a retreat. We’ll leave tonight, under cover of darkness.” His voice was steady.

Alexander saluted him. “Yes, sir.” Mentally, he began preparing a list of everything that would need to be accomplished before nightfall, though it was difficult to concentrate with the regret burning against his throat.

They’d been so close _._ If only British reinforcements hadn’t arrived via the Chesapeake…

But _if onlys_ were for fools and for children. Turning smartly on his heel, he went to find Lafayette.

* * *

 

> The siege of Yorktown in 1781 represented a serious error in George Washington’s strategic judgement. The Continental Army, which when it arrived at Yorktown outnumbered the British forces only barely, had few officers experienced in siege warfare; the inefficient digging of trenches contributed to the long length of the siege. That the British were ultimately able to summon a decisive number of reinforcements was inevitable, and the drawn-out siege left the American forces without the time or resources to achieve a significant victory elsewhere before being forced to camp for the winter.
> 
> _—_ Evan Kington, _The Unlikely Empire: Trials and Tribulations of Early America_

 

> Had the siege of Yorktown succeeded—which it might have, had Graves not arrived by sea with reinforcements—Washington would have captured several thousand British soldiers along with their arms and ammunition, and had a strategically-located, fortified port where his army could encamp for the winter. The attempt therefore entailed the possibility of a great reward, with a decent chance at success. And though Yorktown was quantitatively one of the bloodier battles of the revolution, when one takes into account that the conflict lasted for close to a month, Continental losses were not exorbitant.
> 
> _—_ Paul Minnett, _Formation of the American Republic_

 

> What Paul Minnett fails to include in his analysis of the Yorktown siege is the effect the failure had on Washington’s reputation. Tactically, the battle was not a dramatic loss for the Americans, but Washington’s enemies in the Continental Congress seized the opportunity to call his strategic abilities into question. With Charles Lee and Horatio Gates in disgrace, no serious contenders for commander-in-chief presented themselves, and Washington retained his position. Still, the incident revived the political infighting surrounding the army, and for a brief moment in American history, the legacy of George Washington seemed in question. 
> 
> _—_ Clara Pisani, _An Invisible War: Politics of the Revolution_

* * *

 Alexander was hunched over his desk, answering mail as rapidly as he could—a chore more enjoyable now that he knew he had more exciting tasks to do in the immediate future. In theory, of course, he could have left it for one of the other aides to do upon the morrow. Washington had even told him to get some rest so he’d have energy for his journey the next day.

That had been several hours ago, but, well. There was still work to be done, and the General’s directive hadn’t been an _order_. He knew himself well enough to know he’d be unlikely to get any sleep in any case, let alone knowing he’d left work unfinished. When footsteps sounded outside the tent and the flap was pushed open, his hand jerked to a guilty halt and he readied excuses in his mind for continuing to work despite the late hour as he rose to his feet.

But it wasn’t Washington who entered the tent.

Alexander dropped his quill and crossed the tent in a few quick steps. John Laurens stepped forward just as eagerly to meet him halfway, and Alexander threw his arms around the other man. “I didn’t—John, my god—how are you _here?_ ” He knew Washington had recalled troops from across various states after the loss at Yorktown—had written some of the orders himself—but Laurens’s regiment hadn’t been predicted to arrive, not for days. Not until after he’d already left camp.

Pressing his face against the warmth of the other man’s neck, Alexander closed his eyes against a sudden stinging. He hadn’t thought he’d have this chance this soon. He’d feared not getting it ever; in war, as in life in general, there were no promises of reunions, and Laurens—

Well. He looked more to Providence than to John’s own sense of self-preservation to bring them back together.

 “I marched as fast as I could once I got your letter,” Laurens answered, voice choked slightly. “The rest of my men are camped ten miles away, actually; they’ll be here tomorrow, but I didn’t want to risk missing you, so I kept riding.”

 Alexander embraced him more tightly still, gripping the rough fabric of John’s uniform, as if he could make up for the past months of separation by aligning every inch of their bodies. “I leave tomorrow,” he managed. “I’m glad you came when you did.”

Finally, Laurens pulled away slightly, still grasping his shoulders. “So,” he said. “I hear somebody’s a war hero these days. Know anything about that?” His hand slipped up to the side of Alexander’s face, finding a stray lock of hair that had fallen from his ponytail and tucking it behind Alexander’s ear. “Apparently some _dashing_ young officer led the capture of a British redoubt using only bayonets.” As he talked, his hand fell to rest at the nape of Alexander’s neck, pressing their foreheads together.

“We lost anyway,” murmured Alexander. “We were winning until we weren’t, and then there were too many of them, and we couldn’t...” He trailed off, looking up to examine Laurens’s face: his green eyes, his freckles, the dimples that appeared when he smiled, as he was doing right now in Alexander’s direction. And it was a smile sweet enough to win the war in a day, Alexander was sure—a smile you couldn’t look away from, one that would entrance _anyone,_ probably up to and including the entire British army if only it could be turned on them all at once—

“I have my own tent,” he said, clearing his throat. “We could catch up more privately.”

Laurens’s grin widened, and he swept his hand in the direction of the tent flap. “Lead the way.”

Alexander made to do so, though he couldn’t help an instinctive glance back towards the unfinished pile of letters sitting on his desk.  Laurens followed his gaze. “Or I could help you finish General Washington’s mail,” Laurens suggested dryly. “We’d be done in half the time, and _then_ we could go back to your tent.”

For a moment, Alexander actually considered it.

“No, that’s all right,” he said finally, and took a step towards the tent flap. Then he stopped again, fingers tapping against his leg, and turned around again to walk back to his desk. “Actually, hold on, I just need to finish one last—It’ll only be a moment; I was just in the middle of –”

Laurens laughed. Alexander shot him a look, but sat down at his desk, picking up his quill and continuing to scribble out the response he’d started earlier. A few minutes of hasty writing later, he scrawled Washington’s signature and looked up. John was sitting perched on McHenry’s desk, watching him with eyes intent.

“What?” he asked.

“Nothing,” said Laurens. “Some things never change, it seems. The sun rises in the east; the tides come in twice a day, and _you..._ ” He gestured with his hand, as if writing with an imaginary quill.

Alexander walked over to him, and Laurens slipped off the desk so they were standing face-to-face, just inches apart. “You’re right,” said Alexander, pressing closer, and was gratified to hear Laurens’s breath hitch. “Some things don’t change.”

This close, he could feel Laurens’s breath ghosting across his own lips, which he parted. At the last moment, though, the other man leaned back. “Tent?” Laurens suggested in a strained voice.

Alexander nodded and stepped back with a sigh, knowing it was the prudent course of action even if chances were remote anyone else would come into the staff work tent this late. He led Laurens out into the cool night air, and side-by-side they walked through the camp, not quite touching despite the unlikelihood that anyone was watching. Ducking into his personal tent, he lit a few candles against the pitch-darkness of the night and then turned around.

Laurens was watching him again. He stepped forward and ran his hands over Alexander’s shoulders, fingering the gold epaulettes. “You’ve been promoted,” he noted.

Alexander nodded. “To full colonel,” he said. “Colonel Williams was killed at Yorktown; I’m to take his regiment, go north—” He cut off as Laurens slipped his fingers under the coat, sliding it off Alexander’s shoulders. Catching the other man’s hands in his own, Alexander stepped backward and then sat down on the cot, pulling Laurens with him.

Now, with nothing else to distract his attention, it was Alexander’s turn to stare at his companion, torn between the desire to simply rest in his embrace, talking until the sun came up, and the desire to kiss every freckle on his face. The nights when they’d stayed up together engaged in nothing but conversation or essay-writing—those memories were as precious to him as those of their more _intimate_ encounters.

But it had been months since they’d last seen each other, and even if they were lucky it would likely be months before they saw each other again. He leaned in, and Laurens mirrored his movement and then some, pressing him down by the shoulders and straddling him, his hands braced on the cot on either side of Alexander’s shoulders. “Tell me of the battle,” he demanded, eyes dark and voice breathless, and Alexander did, struggling to keep his voice even as Laurens pressed warm kisses to his face and neck, everywhere save his actual mouth. But as he drew into the unhappier parts of his tale, the arrival of British reinforcements and the Army’s eventual retreat, the other man’s kisses grew more gentle and less ardent, so that by the time Alexander reached the end of his story, he could feel only the warmth of Laurens’s forehead pressed close against the crook of his neck.

“And you, my dear?” Alexander asked, when he was finally finished. “You’ve heard all about _my_ actions, it seems, and I think we both know which of us has kept up a more regular correspondence—”

“Oh, come off it,” interrupted Laurens, pulling his head up, the fond look in his eyes belying the mock-offended tone of his words. “ _No one_ could write as many letters as you do; certainly not in the middle of a war _—_ ”

“—so I think,” continued Alexander as if he hadn’t heard him, “it is therefore your turn to regale me with all the tales I have missed in your absence.” He kept his voice light, hoping not to betray the memories of the fear that always quietly crept into his stomach whenever a long period had passed without a return letter. For Laurens had always been even less likely than he to talk about what the future might hold after the war, even more reckless in battle. “You know how much it pains me to have missed witnessing your valor, and it seems I won’t get another chance in the immediate future.” Now no longer pinned, Alexander began to work at the buttons on Laurens’s shirt.

“I haven’t yet received my next assignment,” Laurens pointed out. “Perhaps General Washington will decide to send my men along with yours. We could show the redcoats that they damn well haven’t won yet, no matter what happened at Yorktown.”

For a moment, Alexander allowed himself to be lost in the fantasy—his own command, fighting side-by-side with John, cutting a swathe through the British lines.

But Washington would undoubtedly have already mentioned it if that were the plan; there would be no reason to send Alexander off before Laurens and his contingent arrived. And if Laurens were to be sent elsewhere after however long he was to spend supporting the main army, it would surely be back to South Carolina.

Alexander opened his mouth to say so, but the wistful edge to Laurens’s expression told him it was unnecessary. John knew the situation as well as he did, no matter what they might fantasize. “Someday we will,” Alexander said instead, with more certainty than he felt, and when John’s smile twisted, cynical and sad, he felt compelled to continue. “Who knows where the war will land us a year from now, or two? It’s not impossible.”

Some of the darkness lifted from Laurens’s expression; possibly at Alexander’s words, but possibly because Alexander had finally succeeded in divesting him of his shirt. “Perhaps,” he acknowledged.

“And in the meantime…” Alexander hesitated, knowing Laurens might not appreciate what he was about to say, then forged ahead anyways. “Promise me you won’t risk yourself unduly?”

Laurens frowned, and he pulled back slightly. “I do what I must for the good of my country,” he declared. “You know as well as I the risks entailed by war.”

“I do,” answered Alexander, “and I also know where necessary risk _ends._ ” Sometimes. He knew it when it came to his friends, at least, if not always for himself. “You know I love you for your courage, and I would not have you any other way, but I must ask you—” he cut himself off.

Laurens cocked his head to the side, expression tight. “Ask me what?”

Swallowing, Alexander reached a hand up to press against Laurens’s chest. He closed his eyes, relishing the feeling of the other man’s heartbeat against his fingertips, and then opened them again, tapping a finger against the bare flesh. “Remember that this too is Alexander,” he whispered.

Laurens’s eyes softened and he lowered himself down onto Alexander’s body, pressing kisses along his neck. Alexander arched against him; the thought occurred to him that Laurens hadn’t responded to his entreaty, but then Laurens’s mouth was on his and he could focus on nothing else.

* * *

 

>  The personal clash between Hamilton and Washington that had led to the younger man’s departure was evidently not resolved by the time Hamilton returned to the army. Though Washington seems to have respected Hamilton’s military abilities, enough to give him a command at Yorktown, the two worked in close proximity only infrequently between that battle and the very end of the war. Washington instead chose to send Hamilton to various fronts of the fighting distant from his own location, evidence perhaps that he knew Hamilton was no longer willing to act as his direct subordinate. John Adams later stated that “Hamilton, in a fit of pique, demanded that he continue to be given commands, and that he would not stop pressing Washington until it were so; Washington, unwilling to continue to deal with his nuisance, stroked his ego and got rid of him in a single turn by sending him to the opposite end of the country.” Though Adams’ depiction of events must be taken with a grain of salt, it is undeniable that Washington did seem eager to put some distance between himself and his former aide.
> 
> _—_ Evan Kington, _The Unlikely Empire: Trials and Tribulations of Early America_

 

> John Adams’ description of Hamilton’s “fit of pique” fails to withstand even a cursory analysis. Setting aside the fact that Adams wasn’t present for any hypothetical blowout, it seems impossible that Hamilton and Washington could have been at odds for most of the early half of the 1780s given how closely they worked together in the years following the war’s end. Moreover, after Hamilton’s initial return, there is nothing in their correspondence to indicate such hostility. It is far more likely, then, that Washington—who having given Hamilton one command at Yorktown must have realized that he could no longer justify keeping him at a desk—decided he could best make use of Hamilton’s extraordinary abilities and understanding of the broader war strategy by allowing him to operate where Washington’s own influence was weakest. Burned by his experiences with Lee, Conway, Arnold, Gates, and other generals who proved selfish or disloyal to Washington or the cause, Washington made the decision to send his trusted protégé to the parts of the war he could not control himself.
> 
> _—_ Ron Chernow, _Alexander Hamilton._

 

> Many historians have pointed to Hamilton’s military exploits between the years 1781 and 1784 as the time when he first became a national figure, setting the stage for his later political career. Yet it should also be remembered as the time when Hamilton truly began his lifelong habit of making enemies. Many other officers resented the rapid rise through the ranks of this young, illegitimate West Indian who lacked elite family credentials, and their concerns were echoed by some in the Continental Congress. It was a microcosm of the decades to follow, a fitting start to the career of a man who would become possibly the most controversial president in American history.
> 
> _—_ Claudia Kramer, _The Death of American Democracy_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> General note: this fic will use the musical timeline wherever possible, so there are some historical inaccuracies (e.g. in real life, Laurens was present at Yorktown, and French involvement was more complicated than a single decision made near the end of the war).
> 
> Also, special thanks to ossapher for the feedback on this.
> 
> Come talk to me on tumblr @littlelionphocion!


	2. Chapter 2

To George Washington from Alexander Hamilton, 21 November 1781

_Sir,_

_I am duly honored to have received your letter of the 18th 1 and shall not fail to attend to_ _the objectives described_ _. I do, however, wonder if I might be permitted to suggest additional pursuits to which I believe my men and I are well suited. Thrice in the past two weeks my men have encountered British scouting parties and emerged victorious; 2 my hope is that this demonstration of _ability _and_ zeal _will convince Your Excellency that the regiment is prepared to undertake a military enterprise of greater importance should one present itself. Winter is almost upon us, and with it the closing of the season in which we can attempt to regain the momentum and the morale which the Army, Congress, and the Nation lost at Yorktown. 3 _

_As for the other matters you mention, I have reviewed the news regarding the southern campaign and taken the liberty to enclose some suggestions, encoded in the usual way, as to how best take advantage of these developments._

_I have the honor to be, with great esteem and respect, Your Excellency’s Most Obedient Servant_

_A. Hamilton_

ALS, Hamilton Papers, Library of Congress.

  1. For background to this letter, see Washington to H, November 18, 1781 _._
  2. For the background to the material in this paragraph, see H’s correspondence with John Laurens.
  3. Washington was defeated by Cornwallis at Yorktown, Virginia, on October 27, 1781.



* * *

To Alexander Hamilton from George Washington, 26 November 1781

_Dear Sir,_

_I have recd your letter of the 21st. 1 Though I commend your enthusiasm, I must for the moment instruct you to continue on your present course, for I believe this to be a case where Patience will prove to be the most prudent path. Despite our recent defeat at Yorktown, I think us in a stable enough position that the risk of _multiple _such losses is not one worth taking. I applaud your successes at harassing the British to date, and you may rest assured that I will take your qualifications and achievements into account in future; I assume, however, that I do not need to remind you of the_ political _and other considerations that must influence any appointment. 2 _

_I am dear Sir Yr. Most Obedt. Servt_

_Go: Washington_

ALS, Hamilton Papers, Library of Congress

  1. For background to this letter, see H to Washington, November 2, 1781.
  2. Congress had been displeased by Washington’s loss at Yorktown and would spend much of the following year attempting to replace several of Washington’s highest ranking officers. These attempts were generally unsuccessful, in part because different factions of Congress favored different potential replacements. See _GW_ , XXI, 501–15.



* * *

 When Alexander finally arrived at the house, Eliza almost missed greeting him. The sound of approaching hoofbeats had brought her to the window dozens of times in the past two weeks, and each time she’d been disappointed as a stranger rode past on the way to some other destination.

Eliza watched his face light up as he saw her standing in the doorway and flew toward her, and then watched as he stopped abruptly a few feet away. His eyes moved over her body, and she could see the moment when he realized she was no longer pregnant.

“The baby,” said Alexander, and it was his anxious tone as much as his shattered expression that made her realize what he was thinking.

“Healthy,” she reassured him. “He was born a week ago,” and she had to stop talking for a moment as her own throat closed up. Swallowing, she continued: “We’ve been calling him Philip. He’s asleep right now.”

“Philip is a good name,” Alexander choked out. “Eliza, I’m so sorry. I wanted to be here, I did, but I had to get my men settled for the winter and then there was so much to do—I thought there would still be time.”

Eliza didn’t respond. To pretend that she hadn’t missed him desperately—that she hadn’t wanted her husband present for the birth of _their child_ —would be a lie. Her parents and sisters had been there, of course; Angelica had held her hand through the long, painful hours of labor. It wasn’t the same.

Alexander stepped forward and hugged her. “I’m so sorry,” he repeated, voice muffled against her hair, and most of her bitterness melted away. Embracing him in return, she blinked away the tears that had sprung into her eyes.

Finally, Alexander stepped away and looked her over carefully. “The birth—were there any complications? Should you be resting? Do you need—?”

“I’m well, Alexander,” she said, cutting him off. Then, realizing they were both still standing in the doorway, she took her husband by the arm to lead him into the house. He winced, and Eliza pulled back, concerned. “Are _you_ all right?” she asked. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” Alexander replied quickly—too quickly for her liking.

Eliza folded her arms across her chest. “Alexander.”

He winced again and looked away. “It’s only a scratch,” he muttered.

Eliza’s heart leapt into her throat. “You’re injured?”

“It’s nothing to fuss over,” he said, walking over the threshold and flashing her what she was sure he intended to be a reassuring sort of smile.

Eliza considered pointing out that he had been fussing over _her_ health not a moment before. “What happened?” she asked instead, closing the door behind him.

“Only a graze, I promise you.” He tapped the spot on his upper arm where she had grabbed him. “Some British scouts took us by surprise. But it’s healing, and there’s no infection."

Nodding slowly, Eliza swallowed against the lump in her throat. “Very well,” she said. “Just—just remember that you have a child now, when you do such dangerous things.”

“I do,” Alexander said quietly, and Eliza clasped both his hands in hers, staring at him, almost unable to believe that after all this waiting he was finally, finally home. He looked much as he had the last time she’d seen him, all dark eyes and slender frame and hands vibrating with restless energy. Bags as dark as bruises marked the skin under his eyes, but that was nothing new.

And he still looked at her the same way he always had, like he couldn’t quite believe she was standing in front of him. 

Alexander broke the silence. “Can I see him?” he asked.

Eliza smiled at the tentative note in his voice. “Of course you can,” she said. “Just try not to wake him up.” She pointed him towards the bedroom, and he padded down the hallway and slipped through the door.

Eliza didn’t follow immediately. She wiped away the remaining wetness in her eyes and breathed deeply.

She believed Alexander that the wound wasn’t serious, if he’d ridden all this way with it. He’d been lucky, this time. But what about the next time? Her husband would go back to the war; of that, Eliza was well aware. She knew who she had married. Twice now he had returned to her—would God grant her a third such miracle?

But perhaps the small miracle currently lying asleep would be finally be enough to convince him to stay. 

When she had collected herself, she entered the room quietly. Alexander was standing over the bed, looking down at the sleeping infant. Quietly, Eliza walked over to stand at his side. When she glanced at him, the look on his face nearly brought her to tears again.

* * *

That night, Angelica came over for dinner. Eliza hugged her when she arrived, even though it had only been a day since they’d last seen each other, and then stepped back so her husband could do the same. Angelica was evidently as delighted at his return as Eliza had been, and she smiled to herself as she left the two of them in the dining room together discussing the war situation as she checked on Philip.

“How long will you be able to stay?” Angelica was asking when Eliza returned. It was a question Eliza hadn’t quite been able to bring herself to ask, and she settled into her own seat next to Alexander with some trepidation.

“At least a few weeks,” he replied.

 _At least,_ thought Eliza. As if that were a great amount of time; as if he would not be leaving her with a month-old infant. “No longer?” she asked.

Alexander shook his hand. “The war awaits,” he said.

“I know.” _That’s why I want you here_. But she didn’t want to get into that now, not when he’d been home for less than a day.

“You needn’t worry,” Alexander told her, a hint of bitterness edging into his tone. “It so far seems that I am destined to command my men into only the most minor of conflicts.” He’d already expressed the same complaint to her twice since his arrival.

 _Isn’t that a good thing?_ Eliza had wondered the first time he’d said it. _That you have a greater chance of making it home to your family?_ But Angelica was nodding along sympathetically.

 _“_ General Washington gave you command of your own battalion,” Eliza said. “A group of men to lead. Isn’t that enough?” It was what he’d always talked about.

“Not if I’m only leading them into skirmishes _._ ” Alexander ran a hand through his hair.

Eliza met Angelica’s eyes, and watched as her sister quirked a smile in her direction before turning back to Alexander.

 “You’ve barely had the command for three months,” Angelica pointed out. “It’s winter. And there haven’t _been_ any major battles since Yorktown.”

“That’s what I told him earlier!” Eliza interjected. They both giggled, and for a moment Eliza felt like a girl again, as if she and her sister were laughing over a play they’d seen or a clumsy advance from one of Angelica’s suitors, and not Eliza’s husband’s insistence on placing himself in the situations most likely to get him killed.

Alexander folded his arms across his chest, looking put out. Clearing her expression, Angelica patted his shoulder. “Some of the men Congress favors are hardly worth their uniforms,” she reassured him. “Anyone with a brain can see that. I’m certain you’ll get your chance.”

“Ah, my dear sister,” said Alexander, expression softening. “If every man with influence over the war had _your_ brain, I wouldn’t need to worry.”

Angelica rolled her eyes, but Eliza knew her well enough to tell when she was flattered. “Yes, perhaps you ought to dress as a man and show them how to do it properly,” Eliza said, grinning at her sister. “I wager you’d make an even finer commander than my dear husband.”

Angelica’s eyes were glinting. “What an excellent suggestion,” she said. “What do you think?” She addressed this last question to Alexander, who had clutched at his chest at Eliza’s words, an exaggerated look of betrayal on his face.

Alexander turned from her to face Eliza, shaking his head with mock gravity. “I think,” he said, “that we cannot forget to discuss what _your_ contributions would be to this endeavor, dear Betsey.”

“And what would I do on a battlefield?” Eliza asked with a laugh.

“Why, stun the enemy with your beauty,”  Alexander said. “Distract them with your charm, as you did to me.” He reached across the table, taking her by the wrist and pressing a kiss to her fingers.

She raised an eyebrow at him. “And it wouldn’t bother you to see the British army _distracted by my charms_?”

“Oh, it would bother me immensely.” He hadn’t let go of her hand, was holding it close enough to his mouth that she could feel his warm breath on her fingers as he spoke in a low voice. “I would expect frequent demonstrations of your devotion and fidelity to reassure my jealousies.”

Angelica coughed, and Alexander let go of Eliza’s hand, straightening in his seat, his expression perhaps not quite as abashed as it ought to have been. Angelica’s gaze lingered on him, expression slipping into wistfulness for just a fraction of a second.

Eliza chose not to comment, as she had chosen so many times.

And then the moment passed, a genuine-looking smile reasserting itself on Angelica’s face as she leaned back in her chair and began tossing acerbic criticisms of Congress back and forth across the table with Alexander.

Watching them, these two people who she loved best in all the world, Eliza felt herself relax in a way she hadn’t since Alexander’s last visit. Her husband was alive, and he was home, and he’d had the chance to meet their son she’d feared he wouldn’t get when Washington recalled him to Yorktown. For now, that was enough.

* * *

> The Continental Army fought few battles in the year after the defeat at Yorktown. Demoralized and lacking supplies, Washington’s army returned once again to existing on a razor’s edge. Washington himself seemed to dither, ordering few military ventures in that time period. Though other wings of the army engaged in a string of minor clashes across the country, these resulted in as many defeats as victories and were not enough to break through the inertia.
> 
> —Evan Kington, _The Unlikely Empire: Trials and Tribulations of Early America_

 

> Though Washington was not directly involved in any military actions during 1782 and the first half of 1783, to write off his actions during that time period as evidence of indecisiveness or lack of drive would be a mistake. It would be more accurate to suggest that he returned to the Fabian strategy which ultimately proved effective: by avoiding direct conflicts, he astutely prolonged what was for Britain an increasingly unpopular and expensive war. What’s more, Washington’s diplomatic and organizational activities during that time set the stage for the final, more aggressive, phase of the campaign which began in late 1783.
> 
> —Ron Chernow, _Washington: A Life_

 

> In the winter of 1782-1783, increasing British seizure of crops and farm animals to feed their army led to food shortages not just for the Continental Army but for the civilian population. Moreover, the capture of several members of the Continental Congress who failed to flee Boston quickly enough before the city was captured in October 1782 shocked the country and drove fear into the hearts of many patriot elites who had thus far managed to avoid the most serious effects of the war they had instigated. It was these circumstances which finally convinced the South Carolina and Georgia legislatures to adopt John Laurens’s plan for black battalions.
> 
> —Clara Pisani, _An Invisible War: Politics of the Revolution_

* * *

From Alexander Hamilton to Colonel John Laurens, 21 March 1783

_My dear Laurens,_

_I received with great Pleasure, Dear Laurens, your letter of two weeks ago, 1 and not only for its righting of an imbalance in our correspondence. __No one is more delighted than I to hear of the success of your plan. 2 I rejoice at the victory of not only a practical necessity for this war and for the cause of liberty among men, but of my most beloved _friend _against those who resisted the demands of justice and reason. With this triumph, my hopes that our fortunes will begin to change, in the Southern quarter at least, are newly rekindled._

_If only this bout of rational thinking were to make itself universal! But I fear that those qualities of yours to which this outcome is a testament—tenacity, good judgment, and a virtuous public spirit—are sorely lacking among other men, and none have done more to convince me of that fact than the members of Congress. One might think that, reading missives to Genl. Washington no longer being part of my duties, I would be less exposed to their faulty decisions and deficient justifications, but one would be wrong: now away from the main army, I often experience the results of their inaction without hearing of any justification whatsoever, and that is a position even more frustrating._

_Forgive my ranting. I find myself wanting for intelligent conversation and for the company of my friends—you are familiar with my_ wantings _, and surely understand that I only wish you were here to help relieve my frustration. I miss you keenly, my dearest, Laurens. Yet I will set my selfish wishes for your presence aside, aware as I am that your current undertaking is of the utmost importance. I hope only that you remember your own value, which your recent success has proven once again to even the most impartial observer, and add the objective worth of your merits to the nation to my own most affectionate wishes for your safety and good health._

_Ever yrs,_

_A._ _Hamilton_

ALS, Massachusetts Historical Society, Boston.

  1. Letter not found.
  2. Laurens was in South Carolina at this time. In February, the state legislature had adopted his plan to free several thousand slaves to fight for the Continental Army, a controversial decision which passed by only a narrow margin.



* * *

> The taking of Boston in late 1782 acted as a catalyst for the end stages of the war. It and the deteriorating economic conditions spurred some complacent American leaders to admit the necessity for more drastic action, but those same circumstances also led other members of the Continental Congress to begin mentioning serious considerations of surrender in their private writings. When word of Congressional doubts leaked to Washington in the summer of 1783, he decided he needed to act before losing any more support, and with his closest advisers began planning two major military enterprises.
> 
> —Rafael Davis, _The American Revolution, Revisited_

* * *

As a child, Alexander had loved the rain. During the wet season, near-daily afternoon showers brought relief from the tropical heat, drenching anyone caught outside with lukewarm water. Even Alexander’s mother, who had fussed endlessly over his ever-fragile health, rarely bothered to call him inside unless the storm was accompanied by thunder. Why should she? The clouds would pass as quickly as they had arrived, and the sun would dry his clothes in almost as little time as it would take for him to change into new ones.

The hurricane had changed all that. It had been months before he’d voluntarily gone outside in anything more than a drizzle, and even now storms accompanied by harsh winds or claps of thunder tended to set his teeth on edge.

The rain they were currently marching through was one of a type Alexander had never experienced before arriving in America, the sort of storm which brought neither terror nor relief but pure, relentless misery _._ Winter hadn’t quite yet faded to spring, and the water which soaked through his clothes was cold—cold enough that he worried it would turn to sleet if the temperature dropped any further. The grey clouds overhead had been there since three days previously and showed no sign of dissipating; the rain never paused for more than an hour.

Alexander knew better than probably any man here that the storm could have been worse, but that didn’t stop him from longing for a dry coat or a building to take shelter in. As it was, all he had to look forward to was a canvas tent: dry, but hardly warm. What was more, even if the rain stopped for good, Alexander suspected it would be difficult to find any firewood that wasn’t soaked through.

He glanced at the sky. Through the dark clouds, it was impossible to tell the angle of the sun above the horizon. Alexander slipped a hand under his jacket and dug in his clothes for his pocketwatch, then did his best to shield the device from the rain as he looked at its face. It was later than he had expected, and he frowned. Despite his desire to get out of the rain, he couldn’t help the sense of forward momentum urging him to continue onwards, to press closer to his goal.

But he was not traveling alone, and a regiment of men would need time to set up camp for the night. Reluctance warring with relief, Alexander called for a halt and swung down from his horse. After another long day in a series of long day’s rides, his legs ached with fatigue, but now was not the time to rest them. Instead, he ordered his sentries to take up a perimeter, then directed his men in setting up the tents (a simple task they had performed countless times, but one which he nevertheless preferred to supervise) .

The rain abruptly turned to hail, and Alexander, throwing his arms over his head for protection, quickly began making his way back to where—ah yes, thank God—his own tent had finally been erected. Cold water squelched between his toes as he walked where water had made its way into his boots. Catching a glimpse of his bedraggled reflection in a nearby puddle, Alexander scowled. He looked like some sort of drowned cat. Hardly the image he wanted to project to the men under his command.

Grabbing his saddlebags from his horse, he ducked inside the tent. He pulled off his boots and dumped the water in them outside the flap. His soaked jacket came off as well, and then he paused, torn between removing the remainder of his damp clothing and keeping as many layers as he could between his skin and the frigid air.

If Laurens had been here, they could have found any number of ways to warm up together. Even Lafayette would have gladly shared body heat with him after a day such as this one. Unfortunately, both Laurens and Lafayette were still occupied with the southern campaign and, last he heard, were both in South Carolina.

It probably wasn’t raining in South Carolina, Alexander decided morosely, and if it was raining, it probably wasn’t cold. And if it _was_ cold, the two of them were probably huddled cozily together in a tent, or even in a house with a fireplace, sharing a blanket, the third member of their trio forgotten...

Perhaps when his hands warmed up enough to hold a quill, he’d write Laurens a letter. He could explain the great betrayal the other man had committed simply by virtue of remaining in a warmer climate while Alexander froze his fingers off. John would be amused. Perhaps he’d even write back.

Cheered by the thought, Alexander began unpacking his bedroll while composing the missive in his head, still wearing his damp clothes. That done, he pulled out his lap desk, along with an oilskin pouch that held various papers. He hesitated. To write to John now, or to review the day’s progress?

Business first, he decided. Later, once his men had finished setting up the rest of the camp and everyone had eaten their rations, Alexander would meet with his aides (and it was still odd, in the most satisfying way possible, having his own aides), and he wanted to be prepared. Letter-writing could wait until later in the evening. He’d have time to write to John and Eliza both—and Philip too, for he’d taken to writing notes for Eliza to read aloud to the boy. Even if Philip was too young to remember it later, Alexander was determined to leave him evidence that he’d never been far from his father’s thoughts.  

Eliza had told him in her last letter that their son was speaking in full sentences now, a tidbit of information which both filled him with pride and made him ache for the chance to return to his family. God, would Philip even recognize him? He hadn’t even been walking the last time Alexander had managed to get leave.  

But it was for Philip that he was doing this, he told himself firmly. His son would grow up in a nation free from tyranny. Pushing away his guilt, he opened the pouch, turning his mind back to the matters at hand.

Thankfully, the oilskin appeared to have held against the rain, and after a moment of shuffling through its contents, he was able to withdraw a map. Alexander sat down, cross-legged, and unrolled the map, smoothing its edges down across the desk on his lap.

Cold and wet it may have been, but the day’s march had brought them almost twenty miles closer to their target. They were nearing the rendezvous point where he would take command of over two more regiments, and from there they would be within striking distance. Despite the chill still settled in his bones, Alexander couldn’t help the thrill of excitement that ran up his spine as he tapped a finger against the map as close to their current location as he could estimate it and then moved his hand a tantalizingly short distance to the city for which they were headed.

_New York._

* * *

 

> From Washington’s letters, we know that he initially intended to assign Henry Knox to the New York campaign of February 1784. It was only after Knox was grazed by a musket ball in the third battle of Trenton that he appears to have decided on Hamilton, who had only recently been promoted to brigadier general after a string of successes. Had Hamilton been Washington’s son, as many have alleged—and had Washington already possessed monarchical ambitions—surely he would have favored him with more prestigious command positions earlier in the war.
> 
> —Ron Chernow, _Alexander Hamilton_

 

> What is interesting about Hamilton’s appointment to the New York campaign is not that Washington chose Hamilton for the position, but rather the small size of the pool he was considering in the first place. Where at the beginning of the war Washington had allowed the Continental Congress a great deal of influence over his command decisions, his experiences with Lee, Arnold, Conway, Gates, and others caused him to rely more and more on a small group of officers whom he trusted absolutely. So although a number of high-ranking officers were recommended to him for the northern campaign by one influential person or another, Washington only seems to have considered Greene, Knox, and Hamilton for the post.
> 
> This pattern is notable for being repeated in Washington’s political career: in his first administration, for example, Washington attempted to remain neutral politically, and continued to seek Thomas Jefferson’s input even after the two ended up on opposite sides of the political spectrum. Yet as time went on, Washington grew frustrated by the attacks on his character and his administration by his political enemies, including Jefferson and Madison, and grew more and more partisan. His second cabinet, for example, consisted entirely of Federalists. By the time he was elected for his third term,  Washington’s supposed nonpartisanship was pure pretense, and he listened to an increasingly small number of advisers—Hamilton chief among them.
> 
> _—_ Claudia Kramer, _The Death of American Democracy_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again to ossapher for the feedback on this chapter!
> 
> Please feel free to come talk to me on tumblr @littlelionphocion.


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